Page 21 of Straight Dad
I copy Marshall, Mattis, Carlson, and my personal attorney, and blind copy Pix after finding her email in the company directory.
A quick shower later, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s well after midnight on Saturday morning.
I grab my phone, and sure as shit, today is the day. It’s the anniversary of my mom’s passing. One year.
A year where my oldest brother, Braxton, found out he had a son, found a great woman, and proposed. A year in which Exton found and married a kick-ass woman. A year in which my tough-as-nails sister fell in love and for whom I will be a best man.
My mom died, and everyone else’s lives became… something.
And I’m fucking lost.
She loved me, encouraged me, and gave from the bottom of her heart. She texted me daily during the college football season my freshman year. I was teased mercilessly about it until I finally told her I was getting shit in the locker room. Did she stop? Nope. She started a group text to a handful of guys, then added to the number each week or month as they asked.
My team knew they were being watched by a mama bear, who saw their potential as players and as men. She was a constant voice.
Encouragement. Jokes. Kudos. Admonishments.
She reminded us to study, to be smart on bye weekends, and keep our heads down. She chided us when we had attitudes about coaches or the plays they called or when the TV displayed us swearing on the sidelines.
She’d call people out if they gave half the effort and gave lectures about plays where our hearts weren’t in it. She’d blow up at obvious bad calls the refs made or where tempers flared without good reason.
But me? I still got mine daily. Some nugget of Emilia Ranger wisdom, humor, or passion delivered daily to my phone.
When I got drafted, she was my loudest cheerleader. Not for the fame, which she cautioned me about, or the money, which she advised me about. She burst out in tears and laughter—that weird mix when someone is so happy all their emotions explode. Pop was visibly proud of me, that was obvious. But Mom had never expected anything less.
Some might say our relationship was different because I was the baby. That’s partly true. Braxton is nine years older and was out of the house and in college when I started fourth grade. A year later, Exton did the same. I was ten and without my brothers. And Brighton… Well, Bright is a whole other story, but we weren’t a duo like we are now. Not at that age.
Mom drove me to practice. Mom took me to two-a-days. We couldn’t very well have Pop up with the sun, running a ranch, handling everything that entailed, driving me to and from practice. He cut down on that work when Brax moved home, but by then, I could drive. So, for years, I had the live version of the Mom text on the way to practice or training.
Today, get one more rep.
Today, be the hardest worker on the field.
Today, accept all correction.
Today, ask how to be stronger.
Today, show them no one wants it more.
And while I may have rolled my eyes, when I did what she said—because Lord knows it wasn’t all the time with my teenage attitude—I got better.
A year ago, those texts stopped. Her words of wisdom haven’t failed me, but fuck if I wouldn’t give every dollar I have for one more text, one more phone call.
One miserable fucking year.
I check the clock. Three-thirty in the morning. Thank God it’s Saturday. I couldn’t very well skip practice after a late night, especially after this trip down memory lane.
I let a handful of warm tears slide down my face and into the hair at my temples.
“Love you, Mom. Miss you so damn much,” I say to the ether and turn my face to burrow into the pillow.
* * *
Livy
I wake after the sun and only because Kyle is impatient. We have our schedule, and I so rarely veer from it that he doesn’t understand the function of a snooze.
He talks and thwacks his tail against the wall. No doubt he’s waking Sabine.